


If You're Wondering If I Want You To, I Want You To

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Books, Falling In Love, First Kisses, First Meetings, M/M, Protective Michael, Rain, Things That Happen On Crowded Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael sees James on a train, and thinks he’s beautiful. Unfortunately, so does someone else, far less politely. And then there’s some comfort, some discussion of pastries and classic science-fiction novels, a lot of rain, and raspberry-white-chocolate coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're Wondering If I Want You To, I Want You To

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachanlv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachanlv/gifts).



> So I apparently never put this up here? I have no idea how that happened. I love this one. 
> 
> Title from Weezer's song of that name.
> 
> Possible trigger warnings for Random Unnamed Person trying to grope James on a train, though that's as far as it goes. Then there is lots of hand-holding.

He’s beautiful. That’s Michael’s first thought, seeing the boy—no, not a boy, young man, he corrects himself, catching a glimpse of spectacular eyes. Closer to his own age than he’d originally thought, despite the faded jeans and shoulder bag and just-woken-up hair; and he can’t help but be a tiny bit relieved, considering. It’s not a thought he’s accustomed to having about men—attractive, yes, desirable, sure; he’s not afraid of his own sexuality, that’s healthy, but beautiful is something different again—but it’s the only word that comes to mind.

Beautiful. Exquisite. Like artwork, all improbable dark hair and bright lips and eyes that catch and fling back every tiny scrap of light in the dim Tube station, joyously challenging the grey morning blur.

He’s even smiling. Not widely, only a suggestive upward curve of those lips, as if at a small private joke, as if he’s happy to be here, getting onto a metal train at an ungodly hour of the day with too many other people and the sticky dampness of winter rain above.

Smiling. God.

The beautiful person finds a seat not quite across from Michael, and fishes around in his worn shoulder bag for a book, and this means that his head is bent and the artificial light scampers happily across the back of his neck, picking out, oh god, freckles, and Michael’s mouth goes dry.

He crosses his legs. Tries, and fails, not to stare.

The eyes dance when the book comes to hand, as if they needed to be any brighter, already the most brilliant blue Michael’s ever seen in his life, and, with a pleased little noise that ought to be illegal _everywhere_ , the beautiful man settles in and continues reading.

Michael can’t even talk. Only watches as freckled fingertips, peeking innocently out of utterly impractical fingerless gloves, turn a page. He knows he’s being absolutely rude and possibly the definition of creepy, but he’s powerless to stop.

The train’s not full. He could go over there. He could sit down next to the eyes and the hair and say hello and ask about the book. Maybe the beautiful man will look up and smile and answer and maybe they’ll have some sort of conversation about literature and Michael can offer to buy him coffee and shyly hold his hand to warm up those fingertips in the rain and meet him for dinner later and do it all again the next day and the day after that, and they’ll fall in love, over a book and a morning commute.

Michael doesn’t know very much about literature. But he’d be willing to learn.

The other man smiles again, at whatever he’s reading, ink and lines and words on the page, and Michael’s suddenly jealous of a book.

Another stop. A busy one, this time. Hordes of people. Swarms. One of them is a pregnant woman and the blue eyes are instantly in motion, jumping up, offering the seat, offering to stand.

Beautiful _and_ considerate. He probably also helps old ladies cross the street and rescues kittens from trees. He probably has a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, since after all Michael has no reason whatsoever to believe that those eyes might be interested in men except his own wishful thinking. Of course someone that perfect would have a perfect significant other, in any case, someone who must spend every second contemplating how marvelous life with him is; how could he not?

Beautiful, considerate, and _short_. Not astoundingly so, but short compared to most of London’s male population, or at least the chunk of it surrounding the current focus of Michael’s thoughts. All that exuberant hair would probably just about come up to his own shoulder.

He imagines that head leaning on his shoulder. His hands, discovering the curves of that waist, under the aggravatingly concealing sweater.

More people, coming and going, and this time there actually _is_ a little old lady, hobbling onto the train, and Michael hops to his feet and even gives her a supporting hand. He would’ve anyway, he really would, but he can’t help peeking over, just in case the blue eyes have been watching and seen the gesture.

He’s not expecting that, of course. Not at all. Not really.

Which is why it’s such a shock, but a good one, like a breath of air through tempestuous waves, when he catches sapphire eyes in the act of looking at _him_.

The beautiful person actually blushes, pink like sunrise over freckles, and who on earth still _blushes_ , for god’s sake, Michael’s never gone for the innocent bashful type, he appreciates strength and assertiveness and self-confidence, but there’s a smile there, too, wistful and sweet and maybe a little hopeful, and Michael attempts to smile back but he’s not sure it’s successful because he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

His effort makes the other man smile a bit more widely, though, so possibly that’s good enough. And there’s laughter in those oceanic eyes, but not at him, only _with_ him, inviting him into the shared moment, the breathlessness, the delight.

At which point every single person on the planet decides to invade their compartment, and Michael loses sight of the smile, as he trips over someone’s ridiculously oversized luggage, apologizes even though the luggage’s owner has just run over his foot, almost trips again when the train starts moving because he’s lost his grip on the handrail, gets his breath back, and finally looks up. He can’t see the eyes. He wants to groan in frustration.

After a few infinitely hopeless seconds, during which Michael wonders what he’s done to make the universe loathe him, there’s some complicated movement, and then the blue eyes pop into view, and then vanish, and then return, and Michael realizes that the object of his fantasies must be having to stand on tiptoe to see over a hulking shoulder.

The beautiful person thinks that Michael is worth standing on tiptoe and peeking over strangers to see. Michael wants to kiss him, or possibly just sweep him off his feet and take him home.

The crowd shifts again, swelling, stirring, and when the movement settles Michael can see him a bit better, caught between the wall beside the door and the very large body that looms over his. The seawater eyes’re still laughing, though they’re also mildly annoyed, not at Michael but at the abrupt lack of personal space.

I’m sorry, he tries to say, with his expression, I’d come over there if I could, and gets a one-shouldered little shrug of acceptance: I know.

The man standing where Michael wants to be is a head taller and several acres wider than either of them, and he shifts his weight, and takes up even more of that personal space. Michael’s person—and he’s allowed to think that, now, surely, they’ve exchanged meaningful glances on a train, right?—attempts to back up further, can’t, and licks his lower lip, and of course that’s enticing too, the slide of wet tongue over pink skin, but it’s also a gesture of nervousness, and Michael feels his heartbeat speed up in response.

The intruder watches the gesture, as well. Intently. Glances over at Michael, smiles, not kindly, and shifts his weight again.

And all at once Michael can’t see anything at all, as the train slides into a tunnel and everything gets briefly dark, or maybe that’s just the broad back blocking his view, and he’s trying very hard not to panic because that’d be ludicrous, they’re on a train in the middle of the morning and he can’t be this desperate to protect a person he’s technically never met, but his heart’s trying its best to leap out of his rib cage regardless.

And then he hears the tiny gasp. Indrawn breath, small and near-silent, could’ve come from anyone, but it’s not from just anyone. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does.

They’re out in the light again and the train jerks to a halt and a few other bodies meander out and Michael can see him again, and before he can quite process _what_ he’s seeing there’s a flurry of motion, one very accurately placed knee, and the blue eyes and the freckles and the newly white face slip out of the open doors and dart away.

Michael, once he can move, shoves his way through the crowd, oblivious to angry grumbles, only hearing the horrified thump of his own pulse, frantic.

That third person, the violator, is gone, too. A different direction, though; Michael sees him stumble into the restroom, clearly in agony, and thinks, _good_ , and, _maybe that’ll be permanent, you deserve it, you bastard,_ and feels formless but very real gratitude that _his_ person can kick that hard when threatened.

He can’t see the right eyes, nothing that unforgettable shade of blue, anywhere.

He steps on something that rustles. Stops. Looks down. A book. His person’s book, abandoned forlornly on the ground.

When he picks it up, the pages fall and settle into his hand as if they’re hoping to feel safe, now.

It’s not a book he knows. Vaguely science-fictional, to judge by the cover. Walter M. Miller, Jr. _A Canticle for Leibowitz_. Plainly well-used, and much-loved.

The station’s not busy. Not a popular stop, this one. Once the train goes, the air is very silent. The walls and the concrete and the brick are listening with all their might, concerned.

Michael turns around in the velvet hush and finds ocean-depth eyes looking up at him; even more like oceans than before, he realizes, because they’re very slightly wet, not real tears, only the suggestion of them, but enough for heartbreak.

“I found your book,” he remembers to say, helplessly, and holds it out.

After an endless second, freckled fingers reach out and collect tattered pages, touching the cover gently, unconscious caresses of reassurance. “Thank you.”

It’s a voice like late summer in Scottish hills. Glowing, if voices can glow; if any of them can, this one does, Michael decides. Like chocolate. Like the richest, most decadent liquid warmth in the world, luxurious and tempting, with unexpected heat at the center, cocoa spiked with mischievous spiced rum. Even somewhat shaken, trembling around the edges, it’s glorious.

“Are you,” Michael manages to ask, his own voice uneven with all the colliding emotions, “are you…all right? Or…”

“I think so.” A deep breath, a shiver; somewhat straighter shoulders, after. “Yes. I’m fine, nothing really happened, I just…”

“What do you mean nothing happened! I saw—he had a hand on your—did he do something to your wrist, too?” He’d seen the wince, when he’d returned the book.

“He…in the tunnel, but that’s only a bruise, I think…that wasn’t the…”

That hadn’t been the worst part. “You—you don’t have to say it, all right? You don’t have to say anything. Can I see, though? I know a little bit about, um. First aid. Bruises. And also, um. Michael. I mean my name is Michael. Fassbender. Um. I mean…hi, I think?”

This earns something very close to a smile. “James. McAvoy. And hello to you. And yes, you can.”

“Yes,” Michael echoes, and picks up the offered hand in his, and then just stands there for a second, because they’re holding hands, and it’s exactly his daydream except that it’s exactly not.

In the midst of all the confusion, he tries to talk, which naturally proves to be a bad idea. “So…it’s nice to—oh no, not _nice_ , not like this, obviously not, you’ve just—but I _am_ glad I get to meet you, you have no idea how badly I wanted to come sit by you—on the train—oh god I’m not a horrible stalker, I’m so sorry, I swear I—James, I’m sorry.”

James blinks at him. Twice.

“I’m sorry,” Michael tries again.

“I’m…slightly overwhelmed, to be honest. Sorry. But…about the train…you could have. I knew you were looking at me.”

“You—”

“Because I was looking at you. How bad is it? It does hurt. And I need that hand, for work…”

“Oh! Sorry. Again. Um…” He touches James’s arm, gently; glances up, a question, before he pulls up that sleeve, peels back the glove. James smiles, despite the edge of pain, so Michael can look, and he does.

It’s going to be a bad bruise. He can tell. A cruel handprint, over that eloquently freckled wrist. But that’s all it is. Nothing worse. Nothing more.

He tells James as much, and sees the relief in those eyes, more of the lingering frightened thunderclouds slowly easing away.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t—I should’ve done—we should put ice on that. There might be swelling.”

“I probably have some,” James says, “at work,” and Michael wonders again what he does, with those surprisingly strong hands, with the arm and shoulder muscles visible despite the best efforts of the fuzzy sweater. It can’t be manual labor, not with that pale skin and that compact build; can’t be anything corporate or administrative unless there’s a really strange dress code, and James is so young, and so lovely, and the other possibilities present themselves in a hideous rush of fear, sticking in his throat, smothering the words.

“About the other part of that,” James adds, and taps his fingers lightly against Michael’s hand, not trying to escape, rhythm like he’s trying to comfort Michael instead, “it’s not as if you could’ve done anything. And you don’t even know me. Not really.”

“James…”

“Anyway, you did do something. You found my book. And you’re holding my hand, right now. I might feel better with you holding my hand. How do you know so much about first aid, by the way? You said you did.”

“I, um…I sort of have to. I…kind of test-drive experimental race cars. For a job. My job. I mean. I drive race cars.” That sentence has honestly just come out of his mouth, hasn’t it?

“You do?” At least James is still holding his hand. “That sounds…impressive. And dangerous. Impressively dangerous.”

“…you really just said impressive, right?”

James laughs, blushes _again_ , and a few more of those clouds drift off, leaving clearer blue skies in their wake. The voice sounds less shaky, also, at last; and Michael mentally whispers _thank you_ to every single deity he can think of and offers blanket gratitude to the rest.

He’d only even been on the train because it’d been raining. Because his motorbike’d been acting temperamental, and because he’d promised to come meet his sister for the day, in the city. What if any one of those things hadn’t been true? What if he hadn’t _been_ here?

“Yes,” James says, “impressive. The closest I ever get to danger is a disappointed customer. Which, granted, can be a little terrifying, like the time I ran out of—”

“James,” Michael says, desperately, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence, “can I buy you coffee? Or breakfast? Anything?”

“Oh—” James blinks at him again, distracted by the interruption. The blue eyes flick up, spot the clock lurking on the wall, and then James shuts his eyes and says, resignedly, “Oh, well, I’m already late, Kevin can’t kill me twice,” and potentially he’s joking but maybe he’s not, and Michael feels a tidal wave of anger at the unknown Kevin, who might hurt his James.

Who has kept talking, through Michael’s silent outburst of protective ferocity. “All right, then. Um, I don’t actually know where we are, do you?”

“Not as such, no. But—you don’t want to get back on a train, do you? Not yet?”

“Not particularly. All right, then. Stairs? Over there?”

“Stairs,” Michael concurs, and they tumble out into the wind and rain, turbulent enough that James actually loses his balance for a second and leans into Michael’s arm, and Michael doesn’t let him go, after.

There turns out to be a Starbucks across the street. Michael raises his eyebrows and James nods, though for some reason he looks as if he’s trying not to laugh, and Michael wants to ask but the rain is icy and James’s fingertips are too cold and so he just attempts to wrap the leather of his jacket around them both, and gets James out of the storm and indoors as quickly as he can.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “Please.” James isn’t visibly starving or anything, but he’s not a very large person, either. And Michael’s salary, while hardly outlandish or extravagant, is certainly more than sufficient to take care of both of them for a while.

James looks at him thoughtfully, through dripping hair. “You know, I think there’s something I should probably tell you—”

“James,” Michael says, before that confession can happen, before James has to doubt his own self-worth out loud, “it’s fine, I don’t care, whatever you’ve done, whatever you—you’re here, now, with me, all right? And I’ll be here for you. And I want to buy you coffee. And breakfast. And maybe I can hold your hand again, I like holding your hand, but you don't have to, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, ever, I promise. Okay?”

James opens his mouth, closes it, shakes his head, says “Michael,” and then laughs, and leans up and in and kisses him, quick and bright and amused and full of happiness that Michael can feel cascading all the way down to his bones.

“James,” he says again, after, because he can’t recall any other words in the world. James grins, squeezes his hand, and then, because they’re next in line, smiles at the girl behind the counter and orders something complicated involving white chocolate and coconut and raspberry syrup and whipped cream, no hesitation at all, and that doesn’t seem to quite fit in the current mental picture, either.

After he’s collected his own coffee—black and strong and probably sinfully boring next to James’s frothy pink creation—and also two pastries because James hasn’t asked for food and that’s just wrong, he folds himself into a too-friendly chair, starts to ask, and then promptly chokes on nothing at all, because James is licking whipped cream off those luscious lips.

James looks up at him. There’s still a stray fleck of white at one corner of his mouth. Michael hides his inadvertent whimper in a desperate sip of coffee, and then _doesn’t_ curse out loud even though he’s just scalded his tongue.

“All right?” James inquires, and actually pats his arm, looking genuinely concerned. Michael says, “You kissed me,” because evidently his brain’s decided to go offline for the rest of the day.

“Yes, I did. I wanted to. I could want to kiss you again.”

“Yes please.”

“There seriously is something I should tell you, though…wait, did you buy us pastries? Does that one have pumpkin in it?”

“It’s seasonal—if you don’t like pumpkin I can—”

“I love pumpkin. I’m claiming this one as mine. Hmm…you know, I think they use ginger in this. Possibly slightly more than I would, or maybe not. Here, what do you think?”

James is holding out a piece of sugary tart, centimeters from Michael’s mouth; Michael stares at the pastry and then at blue eyes and then can’t resist eating it out of his fingers. James grins. Then licks his fingertips.

“Oh god…”

“Oh, so it is too much ginger?”

“What?”

“The pastry, of course.” James grins again, mock-innocent, eyes wickedly merry. “I thought so.”

“…what?”

“Michael,” James says, cheerfully, “I work in a _bakery_.”

“You…work in a…oh, _god_.”

“Um…sort of not just a bakery. I mean…well, no, never mind, you probably won’t have heard of—”

“ _Where_ do you work?”

James tells him. Michael’s speechless.

The thing is, he does like food. He watches cooking shows. Has a list of dream restaurants to visit someday. Considers himself decent in the kitchen, likes to experiment, enjoys new flavors. It’s a hobby, but something he’s good at, something that’s relaxing, when he has the time.

James has just named a place that Michael’s been wanting to try for over a year, since they first opened, since they started receiving awards from every culinary organization known to man. Most of the ecstatic reviews mention the cinnamon rolls.

He’d actually been wondering whether he could convince his sister to go and find it with him at some point during the day. Catherine likes chocolate, and apparently they do a triple-chocolate kahlua cupcake that one extremely reputable food writer’s been heard to describe as “relentlessly orgasmic.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not surprised you’ve not heard of it, we’re still relatively new and not that big yet, and the last time we had a reviewer come by I’d somehow run out of vanilla extract and I had to improvise something with vodka and the beans, I mean actual vanilla beans, and by the way if you ever cut your finger open on a knife and then accidentally splash vodka on it, that very much hurts—”

“You…you don’t just work there. Do you?”

“I don’t own the place.” James sounds almost apologetic about that; takes a sip of pink coffee, as if trying to hide from any possible disappointment, as if he thinks that Michael’s dumbfounded inability to form sentences is anything other than a sign of sheer amazement. “Kevin does. But he lets me do whatever I want, in the kitchen. Except he gets annoyed when I’m late, because no one else knows how to start cinnamon rolls properly in the morning. Benedict tries, but he’s kind of absentminded, and that’s less than a good thing, with that dough. And Chris and Tom aren’t allowed to touch my ingredients, after the incident with the maple syrup and the bacon. Um…I really did try to tell you sooner. Is that—are you—angry? That I didn’t?”

“What—no! I’m not—you—you’re famous! Of course I’ve heard of—I’ve been meaning to—do you _know_ how many awards you’ve won?”

“Um…if you count last week’s I think it might be up to—”

“That was a rhetorical question! And you—I—oh, fuck, I never meant—I practically called you a—”

“I know what you were thinking. It’s all right. It’s actually kind of sweet, that you wanted to rescue me from a life of hardship.” James grins at him, and the blue is even more impish now, teasingly seductive. “I wouldn’t mind, if you wanted to take me home and—what was it you were offering? Coffee, breakfast, holding my hand? We can do that.”

“…yes?” Please yes. Yes always.

“Michael…you _were_ there. For me. After—on the train—and you did help.” James studies his wrist, flexes it, makes a complex expression that somehow conveys pain and dismissal of pain and affection and warmth all at once, and leaves Michael in awe. “I’m glad you were there.”

“ _Are_ you all right? And…yes. Of course. So am I.”

“I am, or I will be. I would like to let you hold my hand, for a while, I think. And then maybe other things. Later.”

“I still mean it. About being here for you. Whatever you want.”

“Well, then…what I want might be you. I do have to at least stop by the bakery, though.”

“You want…so do I. So very much. Cinnamon rolls, you said…”

“Yes, they’re not going to make themselves. And I can make something for you, if you tell me what you like, if you—oh, wait, did you have plans for the day? I never asked, I should’ve, I’m sorry—”

“No—I mean I do, but not really—and yes to everything, you and your cinnamon rolls and yes and—I just need to make a phone call—don’t go anywhere! Please.”

James nibbles on another piece of pastry, hair casually drying into unlikely loops and curls, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, looking perfectly content and completely delectable. “I’ll be right here. I can wait, I’ve got my book, because you found it for me.”

And Michael almost doesn’t get up after all, but he does need to find a quieter spot, so he grabs his phone and runs out the door and stands under the overhang of the roof and the tapering-off patter of the rain, from where he proceeds to leave Catherine a very breathless and probably confusing voicemail, which no doubt means that she’ll call him back later and demand to know _what_ somebody he’s just met and why blue eyes are so important and what pumpkin and ginger have to do with anything, but she’ll also understand and cheer him on.

When he gets back to the table, James is calmly reading, an oasis of serenity in the babble of café music and bodies taking shelter from the wetness. The air tastes like coffee and sugar and spice, and James looks up at him and smiles.

Michael can’t quite think of anything to say, moment too perfect to be real, so he glances at the book, only because those expressive hands are in motion and closing it and putting it away; James’s smile turns a bit more shy. “I like classic science fiction…”

“I’m a Star Wars fan,” Michael tells him, truthfully, and sees the eyes light up again. “I always liked Star Trek better, but I’m willing to try new things if you are.”

“Yes,” Michael agrees, to everything, to all of that, to learning each one of those new things about each other. For all the days, and weeks, and years, to come.

It’s not the idealized fantasy of his idle daydreams. It’s so much better.

And James says “Yes” right back, as if answering his thoughts, and then stands up and kisses him, heedless of bruises and pumpkin-pastry crumbs and curious onlookers. Michael finally gets to lick that fleck of whipped cream out of the corner of that tantalizing mouth, and it tastes like the sweetness of beginnings.


End file.
